


As the Island Looks to the Sea

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Chantry Sex, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Explicit Sexual Content, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Platonic BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen thought he knew what he was getting into when he accepted the role of the Inquisition's Commander.  He had not realised, however, that it would be so lonely.  The Iron Bull assures him that it need not be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I am super-crap at deadlines these days - this was what I'd started writing for the Bullen/Iron Lion week thing on Tumblr, but... eh... timeframes. So flexible, so arbitrary. This is just the beginning of this, obviously, but I'm getting it off my radar for a wee while, so it will be updated sporadically, and I'm expecting the rating to change (ahah, yeah, to go up, I mean). Ugh, and yeah, this is unbeta'd, so of course, all mistakes are mine.

Of course, he’s seen qunari before.  Maker knows, there was enough of them in Kirkwall, and even before that, back in… back in  _ that place _ , he had seen one, a huge thing, devoid of horns.  Maybe.  He wasn’t in much of a condition to remember.  What he does remember is seeing the Hero’s face, distorted through the sphere, and the massive bulk behind her, impassive, stern, then he allows his mind to go no further.  

 

Everything about this qunari is different.  Or rather, from what he has heard, this is a Qunari, a follower of the Qun; apparently similar in belief to the Arishok and those of the aritam off the dreadnought, but… so different, as well.  Cullen feels the eyes of the Charger’s leader on his back sometimes, hears his bellowing laughter at something his lieutenant has said, perhaps, but he does not turn around.  Half the recruits he has are unblooded; their hands more used to holding rakes and shoeing horses than swords.  They are mostly young, undisciplined, but some are older - old soldiers from Fereldan’s army, runaways from mercenary bands, some Templars.  Not much to work with.  All, however, have one thing in common - they are searching for a cause to follow.   _ Aren’t we all?  _ Cullen wonders, and hears that laugh, that deep bellowing noise again, then turns his mind back to the troops.

 

“You’re doing well, just… here, let me show you.”  He puts his hand over the recruits, stands close so that he might emphasise the weight of swing.  

“If you turn your wrist going into the cut,”  he puts pressure on the recruits hand, turning the blade, “And move your whole body into it, then your blow will have more weight.  Don’t lower your shield arm, your enemy will almost certainly see your blow coming and retaliate - don’t allow them the satisfaction.”  He smiles at the young face beneath the helmet, and raises his eyebrows slightly.  The eyes which look back at him are bright, eager, and very, very young.

“Aye, Commander,” this boy says, and Cullen winces slightly.  This recruit’s voice has only just begun to break; before he can stop himself, he asks, “What is your name?”

 

“Wulf, ser.  Edric Wulf.”  

“And Edric… how old are you?”

The boy raises his chin and squares his shoulders.  “Old enough to be here, ser.  Old enough to know that the sky’s open, and bloody demons and that pouring out, and that them that can help, should.”  He pauses, and looks at Cullen imploringly, “Please, ser.  Don’t send me away.  I want to fight.”

“Answer the question, recruit.  How old are you?”

“Fourteen ser.  Or… I will be.  On my next name day.”

 

Cullen sighs.  It is better than he’d feared.  He had joined his Order at thirteen, but that was not to fight.   _ To die _ , his mind whispers, and he takes a deep breath.  “Edric Wulf.  I’m not going to send you away.  I need you to drill every day, learn and watch the others, take special attention in all your lessons.  I need you to think about how to fight, I need you to practice hard.  But what I really need you to think about what it is that makes soldiers follow, what it is that makes a leader great.  Work hard.  Work hard, and the Inquisition will…”  _ Make good use of you _ was on the tip of his tongue - it was what he had been told, after all.   _ Work hard, and the Light of the Maker will shine on you, and He will make you his instrument _ .  He does not want to make anyones life an instrument, no matter how great the cause, how deep the consequences.  He looks at those blue eyes, and finishes, “The Inquisition will be your home.  Welcome, Edric.  Remember what I’ve said.”

 

“Yes, ser!”  The boy beams, and Cullen smiles at him, pats the shoulder under the boiled leather.  “Good man,” he tells this boy, and then quickly turns away.  He hurries over to Ser Edmée, previously of the Chevaliers, and leans close to mutter, “Do you know how many recruits we have under sixteen?”

She shakes her head, mutters back, “We need the troops, Commander.  We cannot afford to turn any away.”

 

He frowns, shakes his head.  “Will you get me figures?  I will not put children to battle if I don’t have to.”

Her brow creases slightly and she almost looks as if she will argue, but then nods and tells him, “If it please you, Commander.  I will talk to the others, and have numbers for you by nightfall.”

“Thank you,” he smiles, and then, pulling his cloak around him in the chill wind, turns toward his office.  From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the Qunari make a gesture, something cryptic toward him, but when he looks properly, the Qunari is looking at something else.   _ Wild imagination _ , he thinks, and frowns.

 

-|||-

 

He coughs, and cannot sleep.  The wind howls through the cracks in the walls of Skyhold, and there were not enough blankets for everyone.  Maker knows how it is that they got here in one place, with as many as they did, after Corypheus and the… He still cannot believe it, the scream of the archdemon, the drop in his gut as he’d realised the shift of the tide of battle.  They’d had the jump on them from the start, and Maker if it hadn’t been Kinloch all over again.  Mages everywhere, their bodies distorted by red lyrium, just… and the shrieking cries… the blood on the snow… he turns over, swallows and tries to pull his mind back from the precipice.  

 

It’s cold.  He’s not sure if it’s the lack of a blanket, or the lack of lyrium.  It’ll be dawn soon anyway, and there is plenty to do.  So he shrugs off his cloak from over his shoulders and picks up his rerebrace, begins to strap it into position around his upper arm.  Their position here is tenuous, he knows it, knows that it will do noone any good if he falls either side of the thin line between complacency and paranoia.  He will walk it.  He does not mind, or tells himself that he does not.   _ Better me than someone else _ ,  _ someone who does not care _ , he thinks, and swallows.  His fingers are cold, even inside the fur lined gloves, and he rises, begins his new day with the sun.

 

Their losses had been heavy, but not as bad as it had seemed they would be, that they should be.  He sees Edric Wulf across the yard, and his heart breaks a little to see how much the boy had grown in such a short space of time.  How hard his face is now.  One of the ex-Templars is showing some of the younger recruits how to use a sword against an attack with a maul - Cullen smiles when he sees the Chargers lieutenant - Krum?  Krem, maybe? - leaning against his weapon, grinning happily.  “Go easy, on ‘em, Krem de la Creme!” comes a bellow from across the yard, and Cullen turns, sees the Iron Bull standing at the door of the tavern.  

 

He had acquitted himself well in Haven.  All the Chargers had.  Cullen had been dubious about the value of a mercenary band to the Inquisition’s cause at first, but had acquiesced after Josephine and Leliana had both argued for it.  All the mercenaries that Cullen had met prior to this had been scoundrels at heart, even the so-called Champion of Kirkwall.  But the Iron Bull… he certainly is an asset to the Inquisition, and if he becomes a liability… well.  That is a matter for another time.  Cullen has to give Leliana her due, she does not flinch at disposing of assets which are no longer useful.  

 

Strangely though, the Bull seems almost gentle, despite his prowess on the battlefield.  He stands, watching Krem, smiling indulgently, the ridges and grooves in his horns catching the light of the early morning sun, which is just beginning to crest over the ridge of the mountains.  Cullen suddenly becomes aware that he is staring, and shakes his head at himself.  He has things to do.

 

“...alright, Commander?”

He looks up sharply from the fieldnotes he has been examining.  Cassandra is standing in the doorway, her sharp features ruddy in the firelight.  The day has waxed and waned, and Cullen had not noticed it.  She frowns at him, narrowing her eyes and asks again, “Are you alright, Commander?  You’re very pale.”

He rubs a hand over his hair and tries a smile.  But there is still so much to do, so many lives at stake, and if only he could stop the blighted shaking in his hands, things would go much better.  Cassandra does not need to know any of that, however, so he tries the smile again and tells her he is fine.  He notices the bowl she carries and tilts his head, wondering aloud, “Is that for me?”

 

She nods, “The Inquisitor noticed your absence at dinner.  He did not notice your absence at lunch as well, but I did.  Cullen…”  She pauses and approaches his desk, putting the bowl of stew - wild goat again, he sees - on the side.  Then she folds her arms over her chest and stares at him so intently he has to look away.  “Cullen,” Cassandra repeats, “I am not your overseer anymore. But I have noticed a few things.  Tell me, are sure you are alright?”

 

“Of course, Cassandra.  I’m fine.  I just…”  _ I’m tired, _ he thinks,  _ so tired.  I cannot do this job, every casualty we suffered, every death, I am responsible for them all.  All of those who lived, all those who need me to lead.  How will I do it?  How can I bear this guilt? _  He looks at her briefly, then pulls the bowl of stew closer to himself across the desk.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I suppose I forgot.”

 

She watches him silently, still as stone until he picks up the spoon and begins to eat.  After a moment, she mutters, “Please, do not make a habit of it.  You must look after yourself.”  He glances at her again, sees the worry in her eyes, and looks back into his bowl, concentrating on shovelling the food into his mouth, chewing and swallowing.  Finally, he hears her sigh, and then her heels against the wooden floorboards.  The door opens, and a draft of frigid air gusts into the room, then closes again.  Cullen puts down the spoon and sighs.

 

The weeks and months go by in the same fashion; wherever he looks on the large maps on the War Table he sees death, nothing but war and death.  Here, in the Dales - reports have been sent of rogue Templar bands attacking refugees.  There, in the Western Approach, the Venatori have been setting up camp.  In the Marches, merchants are threatened, in Nevarra, reports of darkspawn, and everywhere, everywhere Rifts.  It seems the entire continent will be swallowed up any day.  He has taken to averting his eyes from the maps, concentrating instead on looking at the faces of the people talking.  He marvels at their calm.  

 

Because Cullen feels as if he will jitter apart with the tension, that some days, all that is holding him to the earth is the weight of the responsibility on his shoulders, and Maker, it would be so much more bearable if he didn’t feel so damn alone in it.  He had put his head willingly into this noose, all those months ago, when Cassandra had come to him in Kirkwall, and honestly, he’d thought he was ready.  He knew it would be hard, he knew it would cost him, but he did not know the coin he’d spend was his own sanity.  That’s what it feels like.  That every day he takes a step away from kindness, away from soft words and care.  He’s always wanted that, had a moment or two of it over all the long years of his life.  He had savoured those - once, with another recruit in his early years at… at  _ that place _ , and again in Kirkwall.  He was the kindest man that Cullen had ever known, and his kindness was his undoing.  He sighs at the memory, and turns his mind back to the meeting.

 

After all the talking is done, he walks through the snow, on his way back to his office.  He can hear singing in the tavern behind him, and the trudge of his footsteps through the softly piled snow.  The air smells blue, and he knows it means more snow on the way.  Suddenly he stops.  The Chantry.  He will pray, and meditate, and while it will not relieve the burden, it will go some way toward settling his nerves.  Perhaps.

 

But it seems he is not alone.  When he enters, into the dim, incense-laden air of the small Chantry, he finds the Iron Bull sitting on one of the backmost pews, furthest away from the altar.  Cullen is so startled by his presence, he makes a small noise - an intake of breath, nothing more.  The giant turns slowly, the one arm he has outstretched along the back of the bench moving, muscles tensing under the grey skin.  “Oh hey,” Bull says, very softly, “Don’t let me disturb you.  Just needed a little quiet.  Nobody ever thinks to look for me in here.”

 

“I can’t think why,” Cullen says, surprising even himself at the evenness of his tone.  Bull chuckles, then turns fully around, looking at Cullen carefully.  “If you want,” Bull says, his voice still low, and there is something in it which makes Cullen want to squirm, “I can go?”

 

“No, no, please.  Don’t go on my account.”  He does feel a little self conscious, but he approaches the altar, the white statue of Andraste with her arms raised simple, unburdened with the pomp of the Grand Chantry they’d had in Kirkwall.  It’s closer to the representation of Andraste in the chantry at Honnleath, where the light from the lake sometimes shone through the windows on fine days, making it seem that the Maker was dancing the light across the figure of His Bride.  Cullen sighs, and kneels, bending his head.  

 

After that, it is rote.  He recites three canticles, is beginning a fourth when a candle gutters and brings him back to the fact that his knees are aching and the air of the chantry has become very cold.  So he breathes in, pushes up from the floor and touches the statues feet, genuflecting without thinking about it, feeling no better.  He turns, clutching his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders, then stops when he meets Bull’s eye.  He’d rather expected the Qunari to have slunk out while he was praying - he can’t have been a very interesting sight.  So he cocks his head, and Bull shrugs.  He sits up slightly and pats the bench next to himself.  “Take a pew, if you want.”

 

“I’m sorry, Bull, I have work to be…”

“Come on.  It’ll only take a second.  Take a load off, Cullen.”

Cullen laughs bitterly, though some part of him registers the use of his first name, rather than his title, and rather enjoys the lack of formality.  “Take a load off,” he repeats, “That would be nice.”

Bull’s mouth quirks a little at the corner, almost a smile.  He pats the pew beside him, and the sound makes a flat slap in the quiet Chantry.  Cullen looks left and right, but the building is abandoned.  He reasons that a few moments more of peace would not be a bad thing, and that a good Commander must get to know those who report to him.  So he sits, rather awkwardly, hands bunched on knees, avoiding the place where Bull’s hand has been only moments before.  Now that he is so close to the Qunari, he feels the weight of his presence that much more strongly; like an unspoken secret.  He swallows into the silence.

 

“You know,” Bull begins, and Cullen starts.  Bull doesn’t mention it, though Cullen’s sure it was obvious.  “You know, you’re better at this than you seem to think you are.”

Cullen snorts and shakes his head, feeling both a pleased glow in his chest and a vague knot of paranoia in his gut.  “Better at what, exactly?”

He cranes his neck, turns back to look at Bull’s face.  Bull smiles slightly and tells him, “Actually, a lot of things.  But I was thinking about the way you have with the troops; you’re not a Commander who treats his officers like they’re the ones that know what’s going on.  Saw you with that kid, a while back.  Heard about what you did.  Shit’s bad enough without kids involved.”  He nods sagely, then looks at Cullen directly, his gaze considering, watchful.  “But I been wondering - you got anyone looking out for you?”

 

Before he realises what he’s done, Cullen has shaken his head.  He frowns slightly, trying to cover his reaction, and then raises his eyebrows to say, “Cassandra.  I suppose.”

“Yeah, true.  But… ah, forget it.”

Cullen’s frown deepens, “What?  What were you going to say?”

“Just that the Seekers are in charge of Templars.  And Cassandra doesn’t strike me as the type to coddle her subordinates, you know?  Even if she does technically report to you these days…”

Cullen cannot help it, he chuckles and then shrugs.  Bull grins at him and shrugs himself, then raises his eyebrows, “Aw, hey, I’m sure she has her moments.  Just that in my experience, your knightly orders are definitely big on the stoicism, the whole ‘tamp down the emotions until they explode’ thing.  Seems to me you could use a little gentle, you know?”

 

Cullen blinks.  Now the urge to squirm is irresistible; how could Bull have known?  He feels a heat creep up his neck and tries to will it down, his hand going to the nape of his neck almost in reflex.  Bull smiles again, seems to guess at the conclusion that Cullen has leapt to - “It doesn’t have to be sex.  Not if you don’t want it.  And I’m not gonna bring it up again.  But if you wanna talk more about it sometime, you come and see me, huh?  You know where I am.”

 

And with that, Bull rises, looking down at Cullen for a moment.  He smiles, slow and rather sweet.  Cullen opens his mouth to blurt something, something along the lines of  _ I’m fine, I’m really fine, I don’t want this, I’m fine on my own _ .  Bull merely waves a hand, and Cullen shuts his mouth, the words unsaid.  “You need anything, you come to me,” the mercenary tells him, so quietly that the words leave only the faintest trace of echo among the vaulted eaves.  Cullen nods, silently, and Bull’s smile widens.  Gently, he puts a huge hand against Cullen’s cheek, just for a moment; without thinking, Cullen pushes against it, nuzzling.  Then the hand is gone, and Bull is shuffling along the narrow aisle, away from Cullen.  He does not look back, and after the door opens and closes behind him, the Chantry feels more bereft, the silence deeper and more dreadful than it did before.  Cullen touches his cheek, fingers grazing over the spot that Bull had touched, and wonders.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm sorry. It's been a long time since I updated this - it's turning out to be the hardest thing I've ever written. The tags have had a refresh, so _please_ reacquaint yourself with them - they're a much more accurate reflection of where this work seems to be flinging itself. There will be one more chapter, but I'm making no promises about when. Finally, thank you for your patience, if you've followed this from the start.

The days idle by, turning into weeks, months; the Inquisitor is desperate to assault Adamant, to finally scratch the Venatori off the map.  Cullen drives himself hard, trying to forget the rituals of taking lyrium.  The little moments every day which he’d built his life around.  While the physical symptoms are awful, they are not insurmountable.  It’s the mental ties, the habits which threaten to break him; the song of long habit, in addition to the call of the lyrium itself, when combined are nightmarish.  He sweats and freezes by turn, feels his fingers slip and shake around the quill.  The damn quill.  He is no Josephine, born to wrangle and wheedle and flatter - he was born to break.  His hand cramps, his head is in knots, and there is no relief, no relief anywhere.

 

Nowhere, perhaps, except the yard. Every day, when he is at his worst, he goes there.  It seems to always be at the point just before moonrise, when the bulk of Skyhold empties out, goes to the mess halls or the banquet hall or the tavern.  The gloaming hangs thick, so rich and velvety it feels like a caress across his fevered cheek.  For the most part there is no-one there - the straw dummies take every blow of the blunted practice sword he uses without complaint, even when he hits them so hard their sandy guts spill onto the turf.  He works until he is exhausted, then goes back upstairs to his rooms.  And there is always a small loaf, a bowl of soup and a small washbasin and cloth waiting for him - always just on the comfortable side of cool.  He has never seen these items arrive, does not know who brings them; he simply makes use of them, eating the food quickly and wiping the worst of the sweat off himself before retiring immediately to bed.

 

Ah, but there is no rest, not for him.  Every night the dreams return, and if the cry of habit is keen in the daytime, it is the hand of terror which pulls him backward at night.  He longs for the dreamless sleep of his lyrium daze now - those blank nights.  Now, sleep is full of sharp teeth and soft breasts, sweet words and eyes that burn.  Trapped, trapped, forever trapped.  Tonight is no different.  He wakes suddenly, a scream on his lips, fists clenched, cheeks wet.  In the extremity of his dream, he has torn the sheets, bitten his lip bloody.  He looks down and sobs, before squeezing his eyes shut.  It makes no matter - he can feel it, his cock is hard, throbbing, straining at the cloth of his smalls.  Obscene that he should desire this and fear this in almost equal measure.  He exalts that he’ll never be free of it, though - he knows it is all he deserves.

 

So he gets up, dressing himself with shaking hands, ignoring the way his body seems to thrum with tension.  The moon shines, bloated, idiotic, through the hole in the roof, but he does not see it. The night is still young, still hours from midnight, so he walks.  Walks around and down, over the battlements, through the yard.  He knows some of the secret passages now; though the place is ancient and cunningly made, and he does not delude himself that he knows them all.  Tonight, after following one such passage from the lower yard, he finds himself in a barracks adjacent to the Herald’s Rest.  He knows it is there, because of the bellow of noise, even through the wall.  The old wood floor creaks as he passes along the corridor, doors to either side of him.  Most of the rooms are silent, deserted, but he can hear the occasional loud snore from some. As he passes, he hears a low moan, and a door creaks open very slightly.  Without thinking, Cullen leans over to it, eyes on the floor, his hand out, intending to pull it closed.  He knows what that sound means.  But something in him, some perverted instinct - or perhaps it is only loneliness - shifts his gaze through the gap, taking in the sight beyond.

 

It is the Iron Bull. Of course it is, even Cullen knows his reputation, as proud as he is of having no time or inclination for idle gossip.  Cullen cannot see his face, but he knows who it is by the gunmetal grey skin, the one maimed hand, the sheer size of him.  Bull is lying on his bed, on his back, huge naked legs splayed slightly, hands on the hips of the woman above him.  Her skin glows warmly, lush and beautiful in the candlelight, and her dark hair seems accented with fire.  She moans again, rising slightly and Cullen’s gaze is drawn down her back, over the curve of her arse to the point at which the two bodies join.  

 

And oh, the shine of slick from inside her on Bull’s cock, the way she is stretched, raw looking around him, the coral and pink of her as she moves up, up upon Bull’s cock, his cock which seems interminable, improbable.  It seems to Cullen as he feels his breath burn in his lungs, that he could almost taste her, almost smell the way that their bodies have mingled.  He swallows, far too loud, and blinks.  “Slow down, baby,” Bull says, low and sweet, “Slow down.  We got time.” 

 

Without thinking, Cullen grips the door jamb, steadying himself.  It would not do to be found here, watching this.  But Maker, he wants to, and if he is honest, he… he almost needs it.  How long has it been for him?   _ If you have to ask, _ he thinks, _ it’s been a long time indeed _ .  The woman’s hips move again, rising and falling, undulating, and a little more of him slides into her.  “Oh,  _ sauvage _ ,” she moans, her accent Orlesian, her hair hanging forward, dark waves of it unbound and sticking to her sweating back as she leans with two hands on the broad expanse of Bull’s chest.  He laughs a little. 

“Yeah, baby?”

She widens her legs still further, affording Cullen with more of a view.  It seems as if he sees everything; bright shine of slick and sweat, every vein and wrinkle and hair, and that sight - it fills Cullen’s head with nothing but wonder and a desperate, terrible need.  What would it feel like, what must it feel like to her?  Is she in pain?  Does she  _ like _ the pain, perhaps?  He wants to touch himself, can feel his cock begin to protest at the confines of his smalls, but he cannot, he will not. “Touch me, oh, me toucher si’l vous plaît,” the woman moans.  Cullen can hear the smile in Bull’s voice as he responds, “Baby, you’re so beautiful, these tits,” he growls, and the woman moans again, wordlessly, “Aw baby, you look so good, like a fucking goddess, baby, you feel so fucking good…” The praise, the praise falls from Bull’s lips like a litany, and the woman writhes atop him, using her thighs to let her body take Bull deeper, then pull back again.

 

Oh Maker, and the way her cunt is stretched around him, so tight, so beautiful, and Bull growls low, “I wanna watch you come, I wanna see you come, you want that?  You want me to touch you?”  The woman nods, and Bull slides a hand off her hip, around to the front of her body.  Her reaction is immediate, and brutal - Cullen hears a long inhalation, and then the woman cries out, arching her back, every muscle in her arse and thighs clenching.  Bull grunts, and the woman cries out again, shorter this time, her hips resuming their motion upon him, slowly, more stacatto than before.  Cullen’s cock is aching now, and without thinking, he palms himself through his trousers, trying to make himself more comfortable.  As he watches, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of him, the woman seems to wilt atop Bull, draping over his chest and murmuring something that Cullen doesn’t catch.  Bull laughs gently, and Cullen hears him say, “Sure, baby.  We got time.”

 

_ Time, time _ .  The word echoes and crashes cruelly around Cullen’s head, and he turns, clutching his cloak around his shoulders, suddenly furious with himself.  And it’s all such a joke to Bull, everything - this war, what the Inquisition stands for, love, everything.  He seems to mock it all.  Almost blind in his bitterness and fury, Cullen wants to rage against it, this nonchalance.  How  _ dare _ he, how dare Bull carry this burden so lightly?  He crushes a hand to his mouth just in time to catch the sob that wrenches free of him as he blunders down the corridor, without any idea of where he will go.

 

Midnight finds him dozing, on his knees before Andraste.  He doesn’t even feel the cold stone under his skin anymore; his whole body is numb.   _ Please _ , he prays,  _ Please _ , then doesn’t know what he’s pleading for.   _ It’s too hard _ , he thinks distractedly,  _ It’s too hard, and I cannot bear it.  I can’t do it alone.  Please, please, I want it to be over, I want to go home.  I want it all to be over.  Please, just let me go home. _  And what is home?  Honnleath?  He hasn’t been back for years, hasnt’ seen his brother since he left with the Templars. He was a boy then - now, according to Mia, Bran has a wife of his own, a child on the way.   _ Has my life passed me by? _ he wonders, and shivers.  Home is meant to be where the heart is, but Cullen cannot remember the last time he’d loved, not since her, and that was all poison - poison and death.  He feels hollow, washed out.  Words float in the darkness of his mind, and the candles flicker, seeming to move the hem of Andraste’s gown, make her sway in the dim room. Andraste, she who burned for love and it betrayed her, she who died at a strangers hand.  

 

He must sleep then, or at least go outside himself for a while, because the next thing he knows is the feeling of being watched.  Immediately, he lurches to his feet, feeling for a sword that is not there, arm reaching out of habit for a shield he no longer carries.  The firelight from the candles around Andraste’s feet flicker with the motion, and the light reflects off ridged and grooved horns, one intelligent eye.  Bull.  It is Bull, sitting there, in the back row, arm outstretched over the pew.  He says nothing, just watches as Cullen slowly moves out of his stance, watching as Cullen remembers the things he’d seen, what he’d heard, only a few hours prior.   _ Sauvage _ , whispers the woman’s voice in the ear of his mind, and he swallows, wonders if Bull knows he was watching.  He feels the heat creep up his face, but his tone is harsh, steady when he asks, “Did you need me for something?”

 

“Nope,” Bull tells him, “Just sittin’.”  Cullen grunts, rubs his hand over the back of his neck, feels the sweat there.  He grimaces at the protests of his knees and hips, Maker, everything aches, and he sighs, begins to walk down the aisle between the rows of pews.  His footsteps echo, and he feels Bull’s gaze follow him, Bull ahead, Andraste behind, the silver of moonlight and the gold of the candles giving the light a strange, haunting quality.  He says nothing, and Bull too is silent.  

 

His hand is on the door when Bull says, very quietly, “Knew a guy like you once.”

Cullen says nothing.  He desperately wants to leave the Chantry, leave Bull alone, never speak to him again if he can help it.  He feels shame swell in his chest, and a strange, toxic pull as well.  Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Really?”

“Yup.  In Seheron.  Man, that was a shitty war.  This guy was Antam, y’know, Qunari army guy, through and through.  Almost as big as me, but stronger, and he was something else in a fight.  I seen him tear through ‘Vints like it was goin’ out of style, seen him take on three of those spellbinder guys like… shit, man.  It was a sight.”  Bull sighs and looks at Cullen dispassionately.  “You know what happened to him?”

 

Cullen takes a breath, holds it, then says blandly, “I imagine he died.”

“Yeah, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Bull says, and Cullen watches as he swallows.  There is a pause, and then Bull sniffs.  “Guy got shipped home.  Asala taar - it means soul sickness.  War is ugly, man, but what lives up here,” he taps his temple with his shortened finger, “That’s uglier still.  This guy gave his all - sure, he was a good guy in a fight, but he started to see the ugly around the edges, started to see the ‘Vints and the Fog Warriors as people, not just bits of ground on a map.  Not just strategic objectives, but villages where people lived, and worked, and fought for because they loved them.  He started to see that, how ugly it was, how ugly it  _ is _ , and… it broke him, in the end.”  Bull is quiet, and the sudden silence is oppressive.  “Guy got asala taar, and they sent him to a rehab camp.  Didn’t matter.  Had use the qamek on him, tried to break his mind again to mend it.  Didn’t matter,” he repeats, “He was dead a year later.”

 

Silence once more, then Bull says, “You feel like you’re falling apart.  Like there’s nothing left, nothing real or warm for you any more.  That you don’t deserve any of that anyway; maybe even like it’s weak or wrong to need it at all.  Cullen,” Bull turns, so that he might look at Cullen, and the look is concerned, but piercing.  “Cullen, it’s not.”

 

Cullen cannot help his laugh, though he hates how it sounds - bitter, too old.  He takes his hand from the door and turns his body, telling Bull, “Oh, but it is.  I don’t need to be a  _ person _ .  If I am, I can’t take the losses we suffer, I can’t, I feel every one of them, each life, every day… as well as those I took already.  The blue stopped that, but now that it’s gone, all those lives, they… they pile up around me, and I can’t, I can’t.”  He breathes again, a gasp, and then the rage is back, so sudden he has no time to leash it. He takes three quick steps toward where Bull sits, hardly aware of what he’s doing, and thrusts his finger into Bull’s face.  “While you just laugh it off, drinking and joking, wenching and… whatever it is that you do.”   _ Sauvage, _ the woman whispers in his head and Cullen tenses, “I’m not like that.  I can’t let go of it, but I have to, somehow, or… or it’ll…”

 

Bull sits impassively as Cullen trails off.  “You think I don’t feel it?”  He smiles a little and shakes his head.  “I feel it.  Death is everywhere, Cullen.  Asit tal-eb; that’s the way the world is.  You’re a good man, or you’re tryin’ hard to be one.  You’re a good commander of troops, and you’ve got a decent head for tactics.  But when I look at you, man, these days…” Bull sucks in a breath, hesitates, and then says softly, “Cullen, I see an avalanche.”

 

Silence then, in the Chantry, the only movement the flicker of the light on the walls as the flames shift and flare.  Cullen feels caught, breathing hard through his mouth.   _ Avalanche _ , he thinks, his mind circling the word, pulling it inside, testing it.  Bull only looks at him, and Cullen sees that he is waiting for a reaction.  He narrows his eyes slightly, and straightens his spine, inclines his head.  “Thank you for your assessment, The Iron Bull.  Please notify your Chargers that we will require their assistance as forward skirmish troops in the upcoming campaign.”  His tone is distant, odd even to himself, but he continues, “You will need to leave Skyhold in three days; please make the accordant preparations.  You will report directly to Lieutenant…”  the face swims before his eyes, he cannot remember the name, and shakes his head, groping for it.  “Lieutenant… of the second brigade,” he finishes finally, then turns, desperate to leave.  His hand is on the door, it swings open and a gust of frigid air hits him in the face.  He gasps at the sudden cold, braces himself, and walks out into the snow.  “Cullen,” he thinks he hears Bull say, and then the door slams shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Cullen coughs.  His throat is dry, scratchy feeling, and he rubs it absentmindedly, his eyes on the letter he is writing.  It has been weeks since they returned - the remainder of the Inquisition forces. The survivors of the siege of Adamant Fortress.

 

The siege had not been a long one, thank the Maker; the Venatori had seemed just as determined to strike at them as they had been to invade the fortress itself.  However, the long march and the stretched supply lines had served to make the Inquisition’s losses much heavier than they should have been, given their preparations.  He dips the quill again, signs his name, and puts the letter to one side to dry.  He pauses to look at the length of the list in front of him, though he does not dare to count how many more letters he has to write.  These are the names of those who did not make it back, through the sand and snow, to Skyhold.

 

When he reads the next name, actually comprehends the letters in front of him, his stomach tightens, and the quill trembles in his grip.   _ Edric Wulf _ , he reads again, and blinks.  He looks at the point of the quill, sees the drop of ink hanging fat from its tip and hastens to blot it.  He takes a deep breath and writes,  _ To the Revered Mother of the Chantry at Southmere: Edric Wulf was killed in the Siege of Adamant Fortress.  This letter accompanies a sum to pay for a memorial service should his family wish.  Edric served the Inquisition well, and died bravely.  They have our condolences.  In the… _ Maker’s name, he had been going to write, but his fingers cramp suddenly, and Cullen hisses in a breath.  

 

Carefully, he places the quill down on the desk, and massages his fingers.  They are curled, clawlike, and the sere ache is not helped by the cold of his quarters.  His buttocks are numb, it seems every bone in his body burns, and yet… he has survived.   _ Not Edric though, _ he thinks.  The boy speaks in his memory, tells him,  _ Fourteen.  Or… I will be _ , and Cullen puts a hand to his mouth, nails digging into the flesh of his cheek.  Without meaning to do it, he rises, pulling his cloak from the back of his chair, and marches to the door, fastening the heavy clasp as he goes.  He pulls the door open, and steps out of his office, into the swirling snow.

 

The wind howls forlornly over the ramparts of Skyhold, knifing under his cloak, through the joints of his rerebrace, touching his flesh with frigid fingers.  The cold sends a shudder through him, makes the dull pain in his limbs worse, then numbing it.  He walks through the gale, into the teeth of it, one arm thrown up over his head to try and clear his vision.  The cloth of his cloak snaps in the wind, and Cullen uses his other hand to hold it over his chest.  The wind is sharp, the cold sharper, and it makes breathing difficult.  He gasps, his lungs filling with icy air, huffed out again on a short cloud of steam which is torn quickly from his lips by the wind.  He moves forward doggedly, fighting for each step, almost losing his footing on the causeway which is covered with black ice.   _ Go back _ , some part of his mind tells him, but now he is caught, caught in the jaws of some desire, some strange impetus.  Because, Maker, he  _ has _ thought, thought long and hard about what it is to win only to lose again and again, never gaining any ground.   Without thinking, he struggles through the gardens, crosses the courtyard, and hauls open the unassuming oak door, finally letting himself in.

 

The close of the door rings loud in the silent, vaulted space of the Chantry.  Cullen hears the wind moan once from outside, feels the muted breath of cold seep through the cracks in the building.  His breathing is hard, almost as if he is steeling himself.  And suddenly, though he is still not sure to whom it is he is speaking, he asks, “If you’re there… if you’re there, I need you.  I need you now.”

There is a shift, a sound of cloth against wood, and then a floorboard creaks.  Cullen does not raise his eyes from the handle of the door.  Finally, he feels the weight of a presence behind him, and Bull asks softly, “Tell me what you need.”

 

There is silence for a long time.  It feels almost as if the effort of making himself vulnerable, of that short, awful walk through the snow has sapped Cullen of whatever will remained to him.  But finally, he manages to choke out: “I don’t want… I don’t want  _ this _ .  I can’t, I can’t - it’s too much, it should be me.  It should have been me.”  He gasps, feels his chest tighten and tells Bull, “I’ve taken so much; when do I pay for it?  I want to pay, I need to… I want to give it all back.”

 

Quiet then, just the sound of Cullen’s panting.  He doesn’t dare move, every muscle of his body seems as if it sings with tension.  But Bull remains silent, until Cullen wants to turn, wring the words from him, have Bull tell him that of course he has failed, failure was his destiny.   _ You’ll pay _ , he wants Bull to say,  _ You’ll pay, but you can never take it back.  You’ll be punished every day for the rest of your life.  Your punishment is to live - live the lives of those you took in service to your Chantry’s expectation. You’ll pay, you’ll suffer.  Remember their faces - remember their blood on your hands.  You’ll pay.  It’s all you deserve. _

 

But Bull says nothing.  And the weight of the silence is so severe, so heavy upon Cullen’s shoulders that he cannot help it; he cannot stop it.  He bites the inside of his cheek, clenches his jaw, but the tears are there, and his breathing shudders in his chest.  His throat constricts, he covers his mouth, but the sob he makes is loud, loud in the hush.  “Please,” he sobs, begging, not knowing if it is to Bull or the Maker that he speaks, “Please, take it away.  I don’t want it anymore.”

 

The weight of Bull’s hands is on his shoulders; then Bull’s arms encircle him.  He sobs harder, giving himself up to it, and then the ever-present control exerts itself, like a landslide will dam a raging river.  He quickly wipes his eyes, holding his breath, trying to quell the noise he is making. His breath shudders again and hitches once, and he hiccups, then tries to step away from Bull, straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders.  “I’m sorry,” he begins, pushing against the restraint of Bull’s arms, “I’m… I don’t know what got into me.  I’ll just…”

“No.”  The one word is quiet, firm, and instantly Cullen stops resisting.  There is such power in that voice, Bull’s voice, but it is not cruel or cold; it is warm, impassioned.  “Cullen, I’ve let this go on long enough.  Will you trust me?”

 

Cullen shakes his head minutely, and breathes out, a shuddering gasp.  Then he looks up at Bull - the one eye, bright in the light of the candles; half of his face shrouded in shadow.  And he lets himself go for a moment, his lips parting slightly in wonder at the realisation that he’s wanted this, this…  _ thing _ , whatever it is, he’s wanted it… possibly for years.  He breathes quickly through his mouth, then nods sharply, not daring to look up at Bull again, feeling he will lose his nerve entirely if he does.  He hears the slow beat of Bull’s heart, then the deep rumble in his chest as he says, “Gonna need you to do more than nod.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Cullen mutters, and his eyes dart over the expanse of Bull’s chest, the broad straps which hold his harness in place.  “Please.  I need…”

 

_ What? _  His mouth feels full, but the words are not coming - they choke him, seem to stall at his throat, fill his head with noise, dark and all-encompassing.  For a moment, he struggles, and then he sags against Bull’s chest and shakes his head.   _ You idiot, _ he berates himself,  _ You don’t even know what it is that you need.   _ He feels sick all of a sudden, worthless, and he smiles grimly, shifting nervously.   _ Sauvage _ , the woman’s voice whispers in his head, and he gasps at the clarity of the sudden mental image it brings - the shine and slick of that moment, the gold and silver of Bull and the woman.  Then something twists and it is  _ her _ ,  _ her _ of the Circle Tower,  _ her,  _ all flame and violet, skin like velvet and teeth like steel.  Is that what he wants?  He shudders, his gorge rising, and panicked, looks up into Bull’s face.  “Just… please.  Don’t… don’t send me away.  I… I want…”

But he trails off into silence, unable to elaborate.  Bull looks at him, impassive for a moment, and then his expression changes, softens, and he cups Cullen’s chin.

“Cullen,”  he says, his voice quiet but commanding, “Cullen.  If you trust me, I can take care of you.  But you need to let go.”

 

Cullen frowns, caught.  His entire body feels tense, so rigid with tension that nothing can happen - his heart flutters, his breath is short.  They stand there in the silent Chantry for a long time, the wind howling around the old stone, Bull’s warm, strong arms around him.  Slowly, Cullen relaxes - so slowly he almost doesn’t realise he’s doing it.  After a time, Bull speaks in that same low, gentle tone:  “Let go.  Let go, Cullen.  Right now, you’re too focussed  _ outside _ yourself to look at what might be inside here.”  He puts a gentle finger against Cullen’s temple, and Cullen releases a shuddering breath, pushes his head against Bull’s hand like a dog.  Bull chuckles, then sighs.  “And that’s okay, that’s been good.  It’s got you where you needed to be.  But now…” He sighs, strokes his hands over the planes of Cullen’s back gently, then pauses.  “Everything’s all tangled up in there.   Cullen, I can help.  But you gotta let it go, let go of that tangle.  It’s not all that’s keepin’ you here, you know.  Can you do it?  Let it go?”

 

_ This is it _ , Cullen thinks, and finds himself perplexed.  Slowly, he smiles; the very air seems made of treacle, thick, viscous and heavy, and his limbs are weighted.  Surely, surely he should be… frightened?  Nervous at least.  But there is only a deep sense of relief, as at the end of a period of mourning.  A sense of terminus; of change.   _ Let it go _ , Bull had told him.  Maybe he can.  Maybe it is time.

 

Cullen nods, murmurs, “Yes.”  He feels almost as if he is sleepwalking, the low light, the hypnotic rumble of Bull’s voice, the heat of their bodies.  He sighs, his eyelids growing heavier.  Bull’s voice comes again, as if from far away, “You need to know one more thing.  Are you still here?”

“Uh huh,” Cullen mumbles, and he hears Bull exhale slightly, then the smile in his voice when he speaks again.

“Everything we do is your choice.  You trust me to care for you - I have to trust you to let me know if something isn’t right for you.  If you start to feel uncomfortable for whatever reason, for no reason at all, you tell me  _ katoh _ .   _ Katoh _ , and we stop.  You don’t have to tell me why; all you have to do is tell me.   _ Katoh.   _ Say it for me.”

“ _ Katoh _ ,” Cullen sighs, the word feeling strange in his mouth.  His head nods once, briefly, and then drops forward slowly, his forehead resting on Bull’s chest.  He is still aware, very aware; the beeswax smell of the candles as they burn, the fresh, blank smell of the snow outside, the feel of Bull’s exposed skin, the way the muscles and hip bones shift and flex under his hands.  But he feels… oh, he feels boneless, weightless, the bitter, strange longing which had rested for so long in his chest translated into this deep, unutterable new sensation - not satiety, not desire, but better, both,  _ more _ .  He smiles to himself, and Bull says, “Can you walk?  Or you want me to carry you?”

 

“Can walk,” Cullen tells him, his voice dreamlike.  Bull shifts, his hand around Cullen’s shoulders, Cullen’s arm around his waist.  Slowly, Bull turns Cullen around, and together they walk up the aisle, toward Andraste and her upraised arms.

 

-|||-

 

These walls, they hide such ancient secrets; such strange things they must have seen.  The altar beneath Andraste’s likeness stands pale, sombre and cold in the moonlight pouring from the rose window above it.  When they reach the place where the pale statue stands, Her arms open, joyous, Bull stops.  Slowly, he turns Cullen around and studies him carefully.  Finally, he says quietly, “Wait here.  I’ll be back.”

 

So Cullen waits.  He hears noises; the scuff of cloth against stone, a grunt from Bull.  But this heavy feeling is still upon him, and he cannot bring himself to turn and observe what Bull is doing.  Bull has told him he will be back - and he will.  He was there when Cullen needed him; almost as if he’d had a preternatural sense for it.  Slowly, Cullen raises his eyes to Andraste’s likeness, regards it dispassionately.  He hears a loud  _ cla-THUNK _ , and smiles slightly - Bull has barred the Chantry doors.  His footfalls come up the aisle, and then he places some items on the ground at Cullen’s feet.  He grunts again, then sighs. 

“Cullen.”

He turns his head, looking at Bull, who regards Cullen for a moment, his expression soft, before he says, “I’m going to undress you.  Then you’re going to lie down here for me, with your back on here.”  He gestures at the altar, moving his hand in the air down the length of the smooth stone.  Cullen nods to signify his understanding, and then clears his throat.  “Should I… can I… look up?  At Her?”  He tilts his chin at the statue, and Bull cocks his head, thinks for a moment, then nods.  Cullen smiles.

 

Bull’s touch is so light, the great grey fingers slowly undoing knots, removing layers - fur and leather, steel and wool, cotton.  Cullen never resists, just observes as each item of clothing is folded carefully and put aside.  Each time, every time, Bull asks him, “This alright?” and Cullen smiles and nods; but the last time, when Cullen stands beside the altar in his smalls and nothing more, Bull looks at him seriously and says, “Tell me your word.”

 

“Katoh,” Cullen whispers, his throat dry.  He can barely keep his eyes open; there is something so strangely restful about relinquishing this control.  Part of him is amazed, horrified really, at how easily, how quickly, he’d been willing to part with it.   _ Perhaps it wasn’t yours to start with _ , a small voice inside him whispers and he smiles sleepily.  Perhaps.  But this feeling, this new feeling, this trust, complete, implicit; it envelops him, wraps him up and soothes him in a way he never would have credited; he is sure that something which feels so good, so right, that it cannot be his for long.  Bull nods, once, and then asks, “You remember when to use it?”

 

Cullen nods, and Bull frowns slightly.  “Yes,” Cullen tells him, still whispering.  It seems all he is able to do, but it seems to satisfy Bull, and Cullen smiles.  Working quickly, Bull shucks off his harness; his belt and boots.  Cullen closes his eyes, suddenly terrified, feeling the closeness of Bull’s body, the heat of flames from the candles, the stir of his cock and the curl of his toes.  The word,  _ katoh, _ it fills his throat, his mouth, his stomach, seeming to rise up in him like flame; but he clenches his jaw against it.  “Cullen,” Bull says, still gentle, but with that note of steel in his voice too, “Cullen.  Open your eyes.”

 

He does not know what he is expecting; and perhaps it does not matter.  Perhaps this is part of Bull’s point.  Here in the Chantry, there is only the two of them.  Nobody else knows; nobody else matters.  The heavy, almost sweet smell of the candles, the vaguely musty smell of the red ropes at his feet, even the familiar Chantry takes on the air of an enigmatic place; mysterious, sensual.  Everything has slowed - no, better; everything has  _ stopped _ .  And when he realises this, Cullen blinks, exhaling.  Bull watches him for a moment, then tells him quietly, “Lie down.”

 

He does as he’s told, the stone cold through the thin cotton of his smalls.  The brilliant moonlight shines in fits and starts through the rose window above him, bathing the Chantry intermittently in that peculiar mixture of gold and silver.  As Cullen lowers his back onto the stone, Bull picks up a length of red rope - the same which are used to tie back the long curtains which protect the antechambers off the main Chantry.  Andraste rises above him, towering over him.  Her statue stands only a foot, maybe less, away from the altar on which he lies, and he feels these two huge presences - Andraste and Bull - surrounding him, comforting him, protecting him. Cullen moves his head to one side, his breathing shallow, and looks at Bull, sees the Qunari gazing at him.  There is such weight in that gaze as it sweeps up his body, but when Bull finally looks at Cullen’s face, sees the look in his eyes, he smiles, his one eye narrowing.  “Cullen,” he asks, “You done anything like this before?”

 

Cullen shakes his head as best he can with the back of it against the stone.  A tiny kernel of trepidation nestles in his belly, and he can feel it begin to send out tendrils, to take root and grow into fear.  Bull puts out a hand, places it on Cullen’s naked thigh, stroking his hand along the flesh, soft, soothing.  “Okay,” he says, “Okay.  Here’s how it’s gonna go down.  I’m going to bind you up, wrists to ankles.  Your arms and legs are gonna go off the side here."  He gestures to the side of Cullen's body, over the edge of the altar, and smiles when Cullen nods, before he continues, "Then, once you’re okay with it, I’m going to make you feel…”  Bull pauses, as if searching for the right words, then he shrugs and tells Cullen, “I’m gonna make you feel  _ everything _ .”  He watches Cullen for a moment, as if searching for a reaction - whatever he sees must reassure him, because he continues, still in the same tone of voice, “But l’m gonna go slow, and you’ve got your word if you need it.  I’ll always let you know what I’m gonna do.  We’re gonna take it slow.”

 

Cullen pants through his mouth, then swallows and nods.  His stomach is tight, bound up in knots, and he feels the coiling and uncoiling within him, the trust and the fear of the unknown.  But as Bull waits, still softly stroking his leg, Cullen shifts slightly, looking up at Andraste, the pale moonlight shining above her likeness.  Words whisper into his mind, unbidden:  _ “Look!  Look upon the Light, so that you may lead others through the darkness, Blade of the Faith!” _  He smiles, feels hope rise within him, stronger than the fear, and tells Bull, “Yes.”

 

Bull nods, and smooths his hand all the way down Cullen’s leg, right down toward the ankle.  He takes the joint gently, pulling backward, back toward his hip.  He holds his leg in this position for a moment, then looks at Cullen and asks, “How does that feel?”

“Uh huh,” Cullen says.  He adjusts his legs slightly, opening them so that the back of each knee rests on an opposing corner point of the altar.  Bull wraps the rope around his ankle, and the feel of it, the feel of the worn-smooth rope is soft, pliable; not silk as Cullen had always thought, but dyed cotton.  The knot is pulled tight, and then Bull reaches up from where he kneels on the floor and takes Cullen’s hand.  He strokes a finger over the palm before he wraps the rope around Cullen’s wrist - the gesture is soothing, and Cullen sighs.  He can feel his mind slipping back into the state he’d been in as Bull had held him at the door of the Chantry.  The sensations have become all-important - the cold of the stone under his back, the warmth of the candles, the softness of the rope, the feel of Bull’s flesh on his.  Anything else is… consumed by this flame within him, this steady burning, bright flame.

 

“That alright?” Bull asks, pulling on his thrice-bound wrist and ankle.  The knots are strong, holding him securely, and Cullen smiles.  Bull catches the expression as he rises, and arches an eyebrow slightly to say, “You’re slippin’, aren’t you?”  He watches Cullen for a moment more, then bends slightly and reaches down, cupping Cullen’s jaw.  As he smooths his thumb over Cullen’s cheek, he says, “It’s okay.  Let go.  I’ll still ask, but whatever you can give me is fine.  As long as you can say your word, we’re good.”

 

Cullen nods and smiles sleepily, his eyelids heavy.  He watches Bull circle around the other side of the altar, squeeze himself awkwardly between it and the statue’s base.  It is narrow, the space between the long, low stone altar and the white stone statue, but somehow, Bull manages it.  Again, he pulls Cullen’s foot backward - again he asks Cullen if the sensation is too much before he ties the wrist and ankle together.  Once he is finished, he stands, grimacing, then smiles.  He is almost the same height as the statue, and his horns make a strange visual echo of Andraste’s upraised arms.   _Saviour,_ Cullen thinks, and in the same mental breath, _Sauvage._ His whole body is suffused with warmth now, but the heat seems to emanate from the lower part of his stomach, curling and lovely.  His breathing has slowed, deepened, and he feels both asleep and awake at the same time.  His arms and legs feel… tight, not painful, but he is acutely aware of the sensation.  Bull watches him for a moment, then smiles and says, “You okay?”  Cullen blinks and tries to smile, parts his lips trying to form the word _yes_.  Bull smiles once more and asks, “I’m gonna start touching you now - that alright?”

 

Silently, Cullen nods again, and closes his eyes for a moment.  It seems as if all his words have left him, like all the world is gone from this moment.  He hears the crack of Bull’s knees, and then lightly, Bull runs a fingertip over the top of his foot.  The sensation tickles and dances over Cullen’s skin as Bull moves his finger gently over Cullen’s toes, over the sole and back, then up, past the ropes which bind his ankles.  A moment of nothing, then the light touch is on the other foot, repeating the same path, over and up again.  Cullen smiles and shifts a little; it’s not unpleasant, but it is a little ticklish.  The touch continues, moving up his calves, both of Bull’s hands on him now, repeating swirling patterns over his knees, reversing course  to run arrow-straight down his shins then back.  The whole of Cullen’s mind is concentrating on the path of Bull’s fingers now as they run further up his legs to his thighs; without thinking, he shifts his legs apart further, as if inviting Bull to explore his body at will.  He opens his eyes again, slowly, and Andraste fills his vision, calm, raising her arms to the Maker, seeking benediction.  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, reassured.  Bull’s hands now, the palms flat against the broad muscles of Cullen’s thighs, they stroke and knead insistently, growing more assured.  Eventually his whole body is under Bull’s hands; his fingers, his shoulders, his collarbone, even his ears, everything, until Cullen’s whole body almost vibrates with it. Then suddenly, the sensation is gone.

 

Cullen opens his eyes.  Bull is there, kneeling next to his shoulder, only just within Cullen’s field of vision.  He looks strangely supplicatory, as if he is praying, and for a moment, Cullen frowns in confusion.  “Hey,” Bull says softly, “How are you feeling?”

For a moment, Cullen only blinks.  Then he nods, and croaks, “More… more please.  Please don’t stop.”

“Okay,” Bull says softly, and then places his hands on Cullen’s head.  Cullen draws a breath - the huge hands surround him, make him feel as if he’s floating, the touch requiring all his attention, the feel of air in his lungs.  He drifts as Bull strokes his hair, as Bull’s hands circle his ears, down his throat, his chest

                  around

                                   and d   o   wn slowly.

 

is     

 

is this it?  is this how it feels? He is alive to it - finally, he can feel everything.  This huge sensation, here, in his chest; it is his heartbeat.  This growth, this expanse - it’s the air in his lungs.  For a moment, he feels the pulse of blood as it races around his body, the crawl of sweat through his pores; every fibre of the rope at his wrists, his ankles, the prickle and strain of every hair as the chilly air of the Chantry touches his flesh.  But now - ah, there is Bull’s touch; anchoring him, keeping him safe, safe from the largeness of this emotion which he both wants and fears.  

 

It continues, this; it seems like it continues for an age.  Until finally, Bull’s voice cuts through the silence, and Cullen slits his eyes open.  Softly, he hears Bull murmurs, “Cullen, I’m gonna go a little harder now.  Tell me how this feels,” and then, Bull drags the edge of a nail around the areola of Cullen’s nipple.  It is not painful, not truly, but the sensation is sharp, demanding, and he can feel nothing else - the touch is everything.  He pants, gasping, and pushes his chest up, arching it into the touch.  “Yes,” he moans, “Yes.”  

 

His legs open wider, thighs straining, shoulders aching, the heat in his stomach wending its way down, each thump of his pulse filling the space in between his hips with want.  But this time, when he feels it, it is not bitter - it is not suffused with loss, with the wicked, raw taint of something which once was sweet and is now soured.  Because now, there is only his body under Bull’s hand, and

 

and that feeling, Maker.

 

that  _ feeling _

it is the whole world.

 

Those hands, huge and warm, the nails now scoring, circling down over Cullen’s chest, his stomach, his thighs, the throb in his cock, the not-quite-pain that Bull is eliciting, that sweet, sharp feel of the nails on his flesh.  And oh Maker, the lines and loops that Bull makes on his straining flesh, his fingers strong, they send quivering hitches of sensation through Cullen.  His mind drifts, empty, serene, every touch of Bull’s hand sending his consciousness deeper, as if a curtain is being drawn over it.  There, in the beautiful velvet of the night, he drifts, as the want builds in his belly, curling inward upon itself, tightening, strengthening.  And it is so pure, so perfect, that he cannot help the smile on his lips, cannot help the way his toes curl, the way the tears slip from the corners of his eyes, unbidden, unfelt.

 

Distantly, he feels his cock strain against the fabric of his smalls, arc up, off his body, and he moans, squeezes his eyes shut.  He opens his mouth, wanting to speak, but nothing will come, he cannot form words in this haze.  Bull’s hands on him, so warm, kneading his flesh now, he feels so warm, the familiar smells of the Chantry, the silence of the night around them, the perfect isolation of it all.  There is nothing else

 

                 nothing

   and then

                             he slips           sideways   just                    a little movement of his mind

into nothing nothing but pure                  sweet sensation     

                                                            the rope [the sweet turned-earth smell of the madder used to dye it, that smell, like the lakeside after rain, filling his nose as he breathes deep]

                                                            bulls hands [the rough callous under both palms, the delicate movements of his fingers on cullens flesh; strong, sensitive, sure.  he knows he knows just what cullen needs he knows it in his bones]

                                                            the moonlight [bright pure brittle; the movement of it like song like water; changing/constant; beautiful]

  
  
  


and then

  
  


-|||-

 

After a time, he comes back to himself enough to realise that Bull is no longer moving.  There is a warm weight on his thigh, and then a soft something, slightly damp, wipes over the skin of his stomach.  Cullen takes a deep breath.  His body feels heavy, but somehow buoyant, and he tries to raise his head, smiling dazedly.  “Bull?” he asks, his voice croaky, and he hears the smile in Bull’s voice when he replies.

“Hey.”  A pause, then the warm weight is back on Cullen, on his chest this time, and Bull’s face enters his line of sight.  “Gonna untie you now.  You alright?”

 

Cullen laughs a little, and puts his head down on the stone of the altar again.  For a moment, all he can do is stare into the vaulted depths of the Chantry ceiling.  He feels that slow, timeless roll of the universe within him, he feels it all fading, the sensation, the depth of the night he has just passed.  Slowly, he can feel the world and his responsibilities within it begin to reassert themselves.  But strangely, now… he feels… feels like… “No,” he says, and smiles.  “No, I’m not.  Not alright.  But… I feel like I could be.”  He pauses, sighs, then tells Bull, “Thank you.”

 

“Huh,” Bull mutters, and bends, begins to undo the knots in the rope at Cullen’s wrists.  As the rope comes free, gently, Bull leans over and kisses Cullen, very lightly on the shoulder.  “That’s alright, Cullen.  We got time.  And I’m here.  If you need me.”

  
And Cullen smiles, blinking up at Andraste, Her white arms upraised, and knows, trusts, that Bull will be.  He knows it is the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been very patient waiting for the end of this story - but most importantly, and the hugest thank you's to my beta's Earlgreyer and dichotomous_dragon, who have been the sweetest, most helpful people - you two have listened to my hand-wringing and dark muttering over this story, discouraged me from binning it several times, corrected my Grammar Shennanigans and slapped my poetic instinct down a notch (just one notch though). I love you both, and I am eternally grateful.
> 
> Also, just in case you were curious, the verse that Cullen remembers is Exaltations 1:10


End file.
